


And I Won't Run Away

by notsomagicath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boggarts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Azkaban, Slow Burn, Touch Starved!Sirius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsomagicath/pseuds/notsomagicath
Summary: Maybe some part of his subconscious will always long for the wild gray-eyed boy that smelled of leather and cigarette smoke. Maybe Sirius in turn yearns for the lanky freckle-faced boy whose every word overflowed with mischief. If that’s the case, what kind of consolation prize is a melancholic professor whose defining trait is the ability to tear himself apart on a whim?Selfishly, Remus loves him still.Inspired by Run Away by Ben Platt





	1. I May Not Be Wise

Every morning since he escaped Azkaban, Sirius spends an hour making his bed, wrinkling the sheets in his hands and smoothing them over again. He insists on doing the laundry, and folds every piece alone, his fingertips skimming the meticulously creased corners long after the job is done. He returns Remus’s sweaters to the coat rack from where they’ve been left in various places around Grimmauld Place. And when their hands brush as they pass each other in the hallway, he stops dead in his tracks for Remus’s next few steps. 

Remus has never stopped searching. Sirius is always just out of reach, lingering in doorways for a second too long and pulling away abruptly if Remus reaches for his empty mug at the same time. Some part of Remus wants the old Sirius back, the one that demanded piggyback rides between classes and greeted friends with a peck on the cheek without blinking. Maybe some part of his subconscious will always long for the wild gray-eyed boy that smelled of leather and cigarette smoke. Maybe Sirius in turn yearns for the lanky freckle-faced boy whose every word overflowed with mischief. If that’s the case, what kind of consolation prize is a melancholic professor whose defining trait is the ability to tear himself apart on a whim? 

Selfishly, Remus loves him still. 

His recollection of the night Sirius arrived is a haze of choked sobs, rain-soaked clothes, and gripping onto someone as if they’d slip through his fingers if given the chance. The most poignant memory is the numb sensation that fell over his consciousness when Sirius pushed him away and told him it was too much, contradicted by the desperate hands clutching at the back of his coat to pull him closer. Remus drew back immediately, the warmth in his arms replaced by the jarring chill of the wind, but he didn’t miss the strangled cry that he couldn’t have imagined at the loss of contact. Ever since, the two of them kept a fair distance, delicately placed as if on opposite margins of a page. 

Over the last few weeks, they’ve fallen into a sort of routine. Sirius wakes first but emerges last, in Remus’ old clothes, barefoot, reveling in the texture of the carpeted floors under his feet. On a good day, they’ll catch each other in the kitchen before Remus leaves for work, and they’ll sit on the kitchen counters and talk until the hall clock goes off. The Padfoot he remembers seeps into Sirius’ every word, but every time Remus leaves, it takes another conversation to coax it out of him again. They walk to the door together and exchange fragile smiles before Remus disapparates from the front yard. Other days, Remus will leave without a single glimpse of Sirius, and the second cup of too-strong tea goes cold on the table. 

The front door pushes open with an obnoxious creak, and the scar across Remus’ nose wrinkles when he winces at the sound. His shoes find their place in the hall with a dull thud, and the buttons of his jacket catch briefly in upholstery when he throws the overcoat ungracefully over the back of the nearest armchair. Remus takes every step slowly, allowing the old floorboards to groan under his weight as a signal of his arrival, which gives Sirius time to absorb his presence before approaching. He never used to need it. 

“Hello Moony,” Sirius greets him, easing himself onto his feet from where he’d been kneeling over a cardboard box.

“Hey Padfoot,” Remus steps forward, and barely catches himself about to place his forehead in the crook of Sirius’ neck, jerking his head up to look him in the eyes, a movement similar enough to a nod that neither of them acknowledge it. 

“How was your day?” 

“It was alright… you?”

“Mine was alright too.”

The normalcy of the conversation is frail, as if one word could push it over the edge and break into a million pieces, and Remus doesn’t dare move when Sirius takes two wary steps towards him, leaving mere inches between them. 

At this point, Remus’ heart may have stopped, and he wouldn’t have noticed. His chin tilts forwards of its own accord, and the smell of his own shampoo washes over him. The scent hasn’t changed over the years, and the fragrance has a nostalgic quality that makes him want to press his cheek to Sirius’ forehead and wrap his arms around his shoulders, but that’s  _ just _ over the invisible line they’ve drawn, and one step over could ruin every bit of progress they’ve made. 

After a beat of silence, Sirius begins speaking as if nothing happened. 

“I found a box of my old things. From before I ran away. Must’ve been under Reg’s bed, and Kreacher didn’t have the heart to throw them away.” 

Remus only hums in acknowledgement, any mechanical words of comfort feeling clumsy and insensitive on his tongue. 

“My first leather jacket is in there,” Sirius says, a wry smile tugging at his lips, I gave it to Reg when I grew out of it fifth year. It was always baggy on him up until right before he-” the words catch in his throat, and his attempt to continue sounds more like a sob. 

Remus’ arms lift of their own accord, and his upper arms drop onto the shorter man’s shoulders. When the realization of what he’s just done sets in, his back stiffens and he takes a halting step backwards, an apology already bubbling over from his lips. However, all coherent thoughts are thrown out of his mind when Sirius shakes his head and slides his arms around his waist. 

Remus stifles a gasp and his loose grip on Sirius tightens slightly, pressing the two of them flush against each other. There’s no skin-to-skin contact, but the heat through the layers of long sleeves and sweaters that separate them seeps in and warms him through. 

“Pads?” he murmurs, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment.

The old nickname seems to trigger something in him, and Remus’ arms begin to tremble with the motion of Sirius’ shaky breaths through silent tears. Carefully avoiding the skin on the back of Sirius’ neck, Remus winds his hands through his hair, the strands slipping through his fingers in disheveled waves. He presses his cheek to the right side of Sirius’ head, working very carefully around the place where the dark hair was tucked behind his ear. 

“I know, Pads,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut, “I know.”

  
  



	2. And I Won't Save the Day

After that, neither of them has to ask. 

Sirius relearns how to play the Black family’s ancient piano, his calloused fingers rough against the smooth ivory keys. Remus will listen, as always, but now they sit with their sides pressed against each other, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. When Sirius works on a longer piece, Remus will turn the pages for him, carefully reaching so as not to interrupt. Sometimes, he catches his fingers remaining mindlessly on the page corners, his focus completely transfixed by the look of concentration on Sirius’ face. 

Sometimes, Remus wonders if there’s a line somewhere. For all he knows, they’ve already crossed it. Or at least, he has. It doesn’t matter what they might have been. Friends don’t think of each other the way Remus thinks about Sirius. Friends don’t stare when the other reaches for high shelves and the thin sweater exposes the smallest amount of skin. Friends don’t wake up from a dream reaching across the bed with the other’s name on their lips. 

And yet, here they are. 

Remus has somehow roped Sirius into listening to his lesson plan for next week, a boggart demonstration, and it’s hard to concentrate when Sirius insists on playing the part. He’s somehow found a white button-down shirt and an old tie Harry left at Grimmauld place three days ago, and he’s stuck a quill behind his ear just like he used to. With his feet propped up on the makeshift desk Remus has set up, Sirius almost looks like the ghost of his seventh year self. Except… the lines of his face are sharper, gray eyes wider, but still, his signature smirk hasn’t fallen from his lips. 

“Now, a boggart is a shapeshifting creature, which typically hides in dark and confined spaces. No one knows for sure what its true form looks like, but can anyone tell me what it takes the form of to most?”

Sirius sits bolt upright in his seat, his chair skidding dangerously on the wooden floors as it nearly tips him onto the floor. He waves his hand wildly, tilting precariously from the edge of the seat. 

“Professor Lupin! Professor Lupin!” he shouts, his voice pitched an octave higher than usual in an effort to sound like a third year, “I know the answer! Call on me!”

“Alright Severus,” Remus says, in the most prim and proper voice he can, “Answer the question. Oh, and wash your hair.”

Sirius gasps in absolute horror, petting his hair with one hand in mock consolation with the other clasped over his heart. 

“Moony, how could you do this to me??” he groans, “I can’t believe you would insult me in such a way, and with such a low blow,” he collapses into the chair, bringing all four legs of it back in contact with the ground with an ungraceful thud.

“Mr. Snape!” Remus calls, barely stifling laughter, “Detention!”

“NOOOOOOO!” wails Sirius, crumpling to the floor. 

With that, the two of them begin laughing hysterically, clutching their stomachs on the dusty cracked floorboards. Their shrieks of laughter drown out the sound of the shaking cupboard until it’s too late. 

The wooden doors of an ancient wardrobe fly open and a dark gray mist flows out, slowly forming into a amorphous form, swaying left and right as if torn between the two of them. 

Without a second thought, Remus throws himself closer to the doors.  _ Sirius doesn’t need to see his worst fears again after all he’s had to do. I won’t let it happen again. It doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I can’t let him get hurt.  _

Right on cue, the boggart widens and smooths around the edges, but just before it gains the moon’s pale glow, it stops, returning to the shapeless mass on the floor. Suddenly, it rises to Remus’ height and tilts slightly to the left, a gesture so similar to a person tilting their head in confusion that, for a moment, it seems almost human. Suddenly, the edges shift in what seems to be satisfaction before rising higher and making its way towards Remus, slowly twisting into a human shape. One that’s recognizable to him in a way that steals the air from his lungs with a punch to the gut when he realizes who it is. 

_ No.  _

Remus whirls around as if to say.  _ I swear it’s not true. I promise. _ But he can’t pry his eyes away and jerks to a stop, the words vanishing like boggart smoke as Sirius steps out of the mist. 

A soft smile plays at the man’s lips, and his eyes are shining a soft cloudy gray, the stain of Azkaban completely absent from his every move.  _ Why would I be afraid of this?  _ The question echoes in Remus’ head and he dares a step closer. The figure only smiles wider and moves toward him, holding his arms out the way Sirius always did when they returned from holidays and they reunited after weeks of being apart. A gesture so familiar that Remus nearly runs to him. 

But just as he lurches forwards, blood blooms across Sirius’ chest, four long scratches clearly visible through the white fabric. The man falls to the ground, screaming and thrashing wildly as more scratches appear on his arm and legs.

Remus stands helplessly, in a state of shock, until the horrifying truth comes to light. A bite mark, one mirrored by the one on his left shoulder. Remus falls to his knees, hyperventilating and shaking uncontrollably, dragging himself across the floor towards Sirius. 

“Get away from me.”

Remus freezes in his tracks, raising his eyes slowly to stare Sirius in the face with an incredulous look that fades to horror as he takes in the terrifying sincerity in his friend’s face.

“You did this to me. You left me to rot in Azkaban. What else are you going to do? What do you want from me, Remus?? WHAT DO YOU WANT???” Sirius’ voice rises in pitch, reaching a piercing shriek of agony as he pushes himself against the floorboards to move away from Remus, streaking the planks with blood. Remus retreats into himself, shaking his head in frenzied disbelief. 

“Pads I-“

“DON’T CALL ME THAT,” tears stream down Sirius’ face, and pure terror turns his gaze to blinding steel, “YOU MONSTER. I’LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING. JUST GET AWAY FROM ME,” he whimpers, “Don’t hurt me anymore… please… I’m begging you…” 

Remus chokes out one last broken cry before throwing himself into the ground, beating at the wood with his fists, and his hands come away splintered, ripping open the skin around his knuckles. 

“MAKE IT STOP,” he roars, one hand still beating at the floor and the other swiping over his face, as if trying to cover eyes and ears and everything else at once, “PLEASE. MAKE IT STOP.” 

“ _ Riddikulus, _ ” a word so quiet that he believes wholeheartedly that he imagined it floats from the back of the room. Sirius vanishes in a cloud of smoke and Remus is left rocking back and forth, tearing at the sleeves of his shirt. 

_ Make it stop. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP.  _

The sentence echoes through his head, louder and louder and louder and- 

Remus is yanked into a rough embrace, a face buried in his shoulder from behind, with his waist bracketed in place by someone’s thighs. 

“Let me go,” he sobs, “I can’t hurt anyone else. Let me GO.” 

“No,” Sirius’ voice murmurs into the skin beneath Remus’ ear, “Never. I’m not leaving you. I’m right here. Look at me. Look at me.”

Remus continues to curl in on himself and shakes his head repeatedly. 

In one fluid movement, Sirius pulls himself onto Remus’ lap, pulling him up to press their torsos against each other in a frantic attempt to halt his movements. So many unspoken things shatter but nothing is more important. Nothing will ever be more important than this. Sirius holds Remus’ hips steady with his knees and cradles his face in his hands, tilting his face up until their eyes meet, the amber of Remus’ eyes glazed over with panic and fear. The words spill from him without thought, and his thumbs brush against Remus’ cheekbones. 

“Look at me. Look in my eyes,” Sirius presses their foreheads together, “I’m not going anywhere. You know I’ll always stay.”

Remus exhales and slumps against Sirius, pressing his face to the crook of his neck, and they sit, and it’s near impossible to tell where one body stopped and the other began. It’s a few long moments before Remus comes back to himself, and when he does, his hands stiffen where they stay pressed to the fabric around Sirius’ ribcage. He moves to push away, but just as he begins to shift, Sirius catches his hands and places them back around his waist, pressing his cheek to Remus’ forehead. 

The action breaks a dam in them both and the two of them cling to each other, huddled together until Remus’ hips ache from the pressure of the floorboards. 

And still, he stays. 

  
  



	3. But Look In My Eyes

“Hot chocolate?” Sirius teases from the doorway, “What’s the special occasion?”

“Well, it’s been sitting a while, so, for all I know, your cup is cold chocolate.”

“You wouldn’t do such a thing, would you, Moony?” he jokes.

Remus gestures towards the saucepan simmering on the stove. 

“No, I wouldn’t. Yours is still on the stove. Get your own bloody hot chocolate.”

Sirius huffs a laugh and grabs a cracked cream-colored mug from the cabinet, moving back across the kitchen to pour his cup. Unfortunately, he’s not as careful as Remus usually is and some of the liquid spills onto his hand. He hisses slightly at the pain, and has the presence of mind to place the mug onto the countertop before dropping the saucepan unceremoniously into the sink. 

“You ok, Pads?” Remus asks from where he’s sat on the countertop. 

“I’m good,” Sirius replies, licking the chocolate from his fingers.

With a fond smile, Remus pushes himself off of the ledge, pulls a rag from the drawer under the sink, and mops up the spill, elbowing Sirius lightly in the ribs when he shifts into his animagus form and attempts to lick the remaining hot chocolate from the countertop. 

Sirius shifts back into his human form and leans against the counter with an exaggerated pout on his face. He reaches out for the still-full mug with a grabbing motion like a child, and Remus makes an exaggerated sigh and picks up the cup from where it lies by the side of the sink. He moves as if to hand it to him, but just as his fingers brush the handle, pulls it away with a smirk. 

“Mooooonnnnyyyyyyyy” Sirius whines, his pout dissolving into a boyish grin. 

Remus’ smirk turns to a genuine smile and he places the mug into his hands, relishing in the soft smile he gains in return. Sirius takes a long sip from the cup, and closes his eyes in delight. 

“Perfect as always,” he says after a moment, and his gaze never leaves Remus’ face. 

Remus‘ stifled gasp catches in his throat, pressed back by the intensity of Sirius’ stare.  _ _

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and wanders closer with feigned indifference to return to his perch on the counter. Remus crosses his right leg over the left and rests back against the cabinets, and the two of them drinking their hot chocolate in silence, exchanging furtive glances and smiles that say more than words ever could.

The silence is broken by a long exhale from Sirius that tries to sound nonchalant and fails miserably. He props himself up on the countertop by his elbows, hesitating for a few seconds before shifting his weight onto his feet. Sirius saunters forwards towards Remus, every movement heavy with indistinct purpose. Their eyes lock with every step, and Remus shuts his eyes to block the blinding light of Sirius’ gaze. 

A fingertip brushes over his eyelid, skimming his lashes lightly as a breeze, but with none of the chill that wind would usually carry. Instead, the beginnings of piano player’s calluses scratch like a matchstick past the edges of his eyelid, tracing patterns over his face, and Remus’ eyes snap open like the first spark of a fire. Every breath threatens to catch and set his world ablaze.

Gentle hands rest just above his knees, and instinctively, his thighs slide apart, the previously untouched countertop cold through the fabric of his pants. Sirius moves almost imperceptibly forwards, until he’s settled against the lower cabinets between Remus’ knees, his hands transferred to where his palms are now pressed to the stone. Both of them flinch slightly when Remus places his mug to his right on the countertop with a hollow tap that resonates through the room. 

“Holy fuck,” Sirius breathes, eyes closed, “that-”

“-was loud? Yeah.” Remus finishes, with a laugh that mimics a sigh. 

Sirius echoes the laugh, and before he can lose his nerve, Remus tilts Sirius’ face up to his. The laughter raises in pitch to a sharp intake of breath, but Sirius doesn’t even shift. Instead, his eyes flutter open, eyelashes brushing against Remus’ cheekbones, staring up at him expectantly. After a few moments, Sirius tilts his chin up, pupils wide, lips parting with shaky breaths. 

It’s clear what he wants, and Remus has never been able to refuse him anything. 

He lifts his arms to rest over Sirius’s shoulders, and there’s a strange pull in his gut when Sirius’ cold fingers run over the fabric of his shirt at his waist, the soft year-worn fabric sliding easily against his hands. Remus tilts his head slightly to the right, and pulls Sirius ever closer, hyper aware of every place where they touch. Their lips brush and Remus’ every nerve is crackling with electricity, forewarning a lightning strike that would light an all-consuming flame. 

The grandfather clock in the hallway springs to life, the chime echoing like a siren through the hallways, and Remus reflexively sits up and knocks the back of his head on the cabinet doors. He winces from the pain, and inhales sharply through his teeth, his first conscious breath since Sirius entered the kitchen. Sirius exhales, slouching forwards to press his face to Remus’ sweater, as if he’d been holding his breath. 

“You probably have to go now, don’t you,” Sirius says, and Remus finds some satisfaction in how  _ affected  _ he sounds.

“I guess I do.”

They don’t move for a few moments, occasionally shifting in tandem as if to leave, but always returning to their places pressed to the cabinets. When the ticking of the clock seems to turn more persistent, with all the urgency that neither of them have, Remus shifts his weight forwards, sliding slowly off the countertop to the floor, Sirius’ arms still wrapped loosely around his waist. He gently unwraps Sirius’ arms, but keeps a steady grip on his right hand while walking toward the door, brushing his thumb over the back of Sirius’ hand. 

They reach the door, and just as Remus’ fingertips brush the intricate steel doorknob, Sirius squeezes his hand briefly. Remus turns and amber eyes meet gray, expression filled with so many hopes and an underlying vein of longing that tugs at his heart until he aches with the rekindled yearning of twelve years. He tucks a strand of loose hair behind Sirius’ ear, and the dark-haired man leans into his touch, turning his head to press a kiss to Remus’ palm, eyes wide in question.  _ Is this ok?  _ Remus smiles softly and nods, smoothing his fingertips over Sirius’ jaw, slowly trailing down over the curve of his throat. 

His touch lingers until he steps back, continuing to walk backwards out of the house with a stumble on the front steps. Remus never breaks eye contact until he disapparates with a  _ pop _ that flattens the grass. 

The smile never falls from Sirius' face. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

When Remus returns home that night, Sirius is still smiling.

The absent twist of his lips turns to a radiant grin when he spots Remus standing in the doorway. He gestures proudly at the shepherd’s pie on the dinner table, still steaming from where it’d been in the oven a few minutes ago. The edges are decidedly burnt and there are patches where the filling bubbles over the mashed potatoes, but Sirius’ glowing enthusiasm and smears of Merlin knows what on his face and clothing are too pretty of a picture for Remus to care. 

“Looks good, Pads.” 

He doesn’t specify exactly who he’s talking about, but it’s apparent from the way his eyes don’t stray from the dark-haired man in front of him. 

“Thanks,” Sirius says, “I know you’re usually the one to cook, but-” a twinge of insecurity creeps into his voice,“I figured I should start carrying my own weight.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Remus replies, but when he notices Sirius’ fingers anxiously gripping the countertop, he continues, “but thank you. Really, Pads. I appreciate it.”

Sirius doesn’t verbally respond, but Remus gets his answer through the softness in his gray eyes and his relaxed posture. In his own message, Remus slowly takes a two spoons from the drawer and places one in Sirius’ hands, letting his wand hand’s work-callused fingertips scrape against his palm, and the ghost of a full-body shudder makes its way down Sirius’ spine. 

“We should probably start eating,” Remus says after a moment, “before it gets cold.”

“Probably,” Sirius agrees, but he doesn’t move until Remus begins to make his way towards the table. 

Subconsciously, his steps seem march to Remus’ beat. A slow rhythm behind the werewolf’s racing heartbeat. The heavy chairs scratch the floors with an uncomfortable groan as the two of them take their seats. They take small forkfuls of the pie straight from the pan, carefully making sure that no food falls onto the table. Sirius takes a bite first, and makes a face. 

“Too much salt.”

Remus takes his cautious first bite from the side closest to Sirius, and frankly, he’s inclined to agree. He takes a different forkful from the opposite end of the dish near him.

“This side’s alright,” he says, gesturing towards his half, leaning back into the seat and inviting Sirius to take a share.

“Thanks, Moony,” Sirius replies cheerfully, spilling a bit of mashed potatoes onto the tabletop. 

Remus hums in acknowledgment, teasingly tapping his fork to Sirius’ when the dark-haired man tries to steal the bite right off of Remus’. The answering smirk he receives seems to grip Remus’ sweater collar and draw him towards Sirius, and he finds himself leaning forwards, propped up on his elbows, as they continue to eat their dinner. 

Their dinner continues on with quiet conversation and comfortable silences, and the inconsistent seasoning of the food provides a source of entertainment for whoever got to witness the other person’s expression when they receive a mouthful of salt. 

Eventually, the pair find that it’s probably impossible to finish an entire full-size recipe of shepherd’s pie with only two people, and Remus places the dish into the muggle fridge that Sirius had insisted on installing a month ago. 

The two of them begin to mechanically go through their nightly routines, walking together into their shared bathroom to brush their teeth and get ready for bed. They make faces at each other through the toothpaste foam, and Sirius follows Remus to the chest of drawers they share in Remus’ room. Remus pulls a pale blue long-sleeve t-shirt and a navy pair of sweatpants out and tosses them lightly at Sirius, huffing a laugh when the bundle of clothing falls on top of his head and messes with his hair. The shorter man pouts at Remus, and doesn’t break eye contact as he takes off his sweater with mock indignation. As the white shirt Sirius has on underneath rides up, Remus catches a glance at a dark tattoo on the left side of his ribs, the black ink in stark contrast to his pale skin. Sirius catches him looking, and Remus looks away with an inexplicable shame, and pulls a soft dark brown sweater and dark gray sweatpants out of the drawer, turning to retreat to the bathroom to change. 

“You can stay if you like,” Sirius says, so quietly that Remus isn’t entirely sure of what he said. He turns to look at him, and his gray eyes are poignantly sincere. Sirius opens his mouth for a moment, but closes it again and moves as if to shake his head to dismiss his statement. 

“Okay.”

Sirius’ eyes widen slightly, but a cautious smile slowly spreads across his face, and he nods slightly. Remus moves to the side of the room, unsure where the boundaries are, and slowly pulls his sweater over his head. A stray thread catches on one of the buttons of his button-down shirt, and for a moment, he struggles to free the garment. After a somewhat embarrassing moment of ungraceful flailing and some rather unflattering noises of frustration, Remus finally releases himself from the sweater, and his slender fingers begin undoing the buttons on his shirt. 

He is midway through the action, and his eyes casually flick upwards in Sirius’ direction, and he nearly chokes on his next breath. Sirius’ white t-shirt is on the floor, and his multitude of tattoos are on full display. They lock eyes, and Remus immediately turns away, afraid of crossing whatever remains of the line they crossed that morning.

“It’s alright,” Sirius says softly, laughing slightly, “I don’t expect you to change blind, you know.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to-”

“Be uncomfortable? Moony, we shared a dorm for seven years. I think we’ve both seen more than this,” he gestures towards his chest with a teasing smile, “I’m not some maiden afraid you’ll steal my virtue,” he places the back of his hand against his forehead and grasps the bedpost by the foot of the bed as if about to collapse, “Oh, Sir Moony, won’t you protect me?”

Reflexively, Remus scoffs at his airs, which are achingly similar to the ones Sirius had used to put on back during their Hogwarts days. He doesn’t say anything in response, but he shakes his head at Sirius, contradicting the grin on his face stretching from ear to ear. Remus resumes unbuttoning his shirt, and eventually shrugs the garment off his shoulders, allowing the thin fabric to fall to the floor soundlessly. Sirius’ eyes follow the shirt to the ground, and make their way back up, running over the long scar across Remus’ abdomen. When he reaches the end of the scratch, he seems to realize what he’s doing and looks away, flushing pink to his ears. 

“Pads, the same thing applies to me too. You’ve even seen me… you know… post-transformation,” Remus coughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair, “If you’ve seen me that way, I’m sure this,” he mimics Sirius’ earlier gesture, waving a hand towards his torso, hesitating over the scars, “isn’t anything new, or anything that I’m uncomfortable with.” 

“You sure, Moony? I can just-” Sirius gestures towards the bathroom door, his tone more gentle than it had been that day.

“I wouldn’t have stayed in the room if I wasn’t comfortable,” Remus reassures him, “Don’t worry. Let’s just get changed, shall we?”

An exaggeratedly posh expression falls over Sirius’ face.

“We shall.”

As they continue changing clothes, occasionally one of them will laugh under their breath when the other makes an intentionally funny face, but then blush seconds later when they catch the other staring. 

Once they’re dressed for bed, they find themselves lying side-by-side horizontally across Sirius’ king-size bed in his room, Remus’ head towards the left side of the bed, and Sirius towards the right. 

“Hey Moony?” Sirius breaks the silence, “Have you ever wonder what would’ve happened if… things stayed as they were? No Azkaban, no Voldemort, with James and Lily?”

“All the time,” Remus answers, but he doesn’t continue.  _ What would he say? How can you talk about what could have been if there’s even the smallest chance of it ever happening? _

“Do you ever think about us?”

“What do you mean?” _ Lie. Remus knows exactly what it means, but acknowledging means that they have to about it, and he doesn’t need hope if it’s doing to be smashed into a thousand pieces a second later.  _ Thankfully, Sirius isn’t a mind reader, and the words seem to involuntarily pour out of him.

“I was thinking of asking you to marry me,” Sirius says, “you know, before.”

Every thought is thrown out out of Remus’ head. Time might have stopped. The world could have been thrown to a stop on its axis, and he wouldn’t have noticed. He sits up, and Sirius pointedly stays on his back, his eyes everywhere except on Remus’ face. When Remus doesn’t say anything, Sirius keeps talking. 

“But it wasn’t legal, and James and Lily had just been married, and we were so young… I wasn’t sure it was right. And you know what, Moony?” he finally turns his head to face Remus, and his eyes search for a semblance of an answer from him.

“What?” Remus breathes, the single word catching in his throat, and he’s hanging on Sirius’ every word.

“As soon as they took me away. The exact moment they carted me off to Azkaban. I saw the look on your face, and you were screaming at them to stop, that they made a mistake. You knew, even then. And I knew something else. I was freezing my ass of in that horrible cell, and all I could think about was how stupid I’d been,” he gasps in a breath, and there’s a few solitary tears caught in his eyelashes, “If you’d have been able to visit me, I would’ve married you right there,” he laughs wetly and bats at the droplets that escaped and left tracks down his face. 

Remus shifts to kneel, sinking into the mattress. He leans down and wipes the tears away, brushing the pad of his thumb over Sirius’ cheekbones to cradle his face as he kisses him gently full on the mouth. 

Sirius’ reaction is immediate, and he kisses him back, reaching up to grip Remus’ upper arm with one hand and take a handful of the sweater fabric around his waist into the other. Remus pulls him to sit upright, and his right hand cautiously slips underneath Sirius’ shirt, tracing circles over the dark ink of his tattoo, still faintly visible, even through the thin pastel blue fabric. 

After Merlin knows how long, they part for a moment, and Sirius whimpers in the back of his throat, leaning forwards as if to take Remus’ bottom lip between his, but Remus pulls back and opens his eyes. Sirius does the same after a second, and they take a moment to fully take in what just happened. Both their lips are kiss-swollen and red, and they’re both breathing heavily. Sirius can probably hear Remus’ pounding heartbeat from where he’s sitting across from him. 

“I would’ve said yes,” Remus murmurs.

“What?” Sirius’ eyes are glazed over and keep glancing at Remus’ lips.

“If you’d asked me to marry you,” Sirius sits bolt upright at his words, and finds nothing but earnestness in Remus’ expression, “I would have said yes. Legal or not. Voldemort or not. I loved you then, and nothing has changed. And nothing will.”

“I love you too,” Sirius leans over and presses his lips to the corner of Remus’ mouth and reaches down to intertwine his right hand with Remus’ left and press kisses on each fingertip. 

“Ask me to stay.” Remus says, pressing his forehead to the crook of Sirius’ neck. 

“Stay with me, Moony. We have twelve years to make up for.”

“Okay, Pads.” Remus leans into his touch as Sirius tugs at the collar of his sweater and presses his lips to his shoulder, “Okay.” 

_ I may not be wise, and I won’t save the day, but look in my eyes, and know I’ll always stay. And I won’t run away.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all of you enjoyed! If y'all want to come and say hi, you can find me on Tumblr @youve-cath-to-be-kitten-me!


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